


Original Sin

by MamaMystique



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (but also some nice imagery), Abandoned places and sensual drawing sessions, F/M, Imagery and smut, Let's see what do we have..., Oral Sex, Sex in a cathedral, Tumblr Prompt, lots of smut, mostly dom!Bedelia, the murder couple strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaMystique/pseuds/MamaMystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The small Duomo was neither old enough, new enough, or grand enough to draw any attention.  In fact it would have been entirely forgotten, left to crumble slowly over time buried in the depths of the Italian countryside and mourned by no one, were it not for it’s two current and only occupants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Original Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted on Tumblr as: "hello and merry christmas! would you mind writing hannibal and bedelia being nsfw in an italian cathedral by chance?"
> 
> Title from the song "Original Sin" by Howling Bells.
> 
> This came out a bit longer than I intended. I'm picturing this space as less of a cathedral and more of a small abandoned church, but I wanted to call it a Duomo all the same. Enjoy!

The small Duomo was neither old enough, new enough, or grand enough to draw any attention. In fact it would have been entirely forgotten, left to crumble slowly over time buried in the depths of the Italian countryside and mourned by no one, were it not for it’s two current and only occupants.

The space inside the stone walls was small and cold, much like the exterior. Shadowed by a hill, it was easy to tell that it had been picked clean years ago. There were no candles, no sconces, no old books or even relics of religious imagery. On the wall hung a great shadow where an enormous wooden cross must have been: the shape seemed almost burnt into the architecture. A few unstable wooden pews remained while others had been shattered or were missing entirely.

All that was truly left to dominate the space was a great stone altar almost directly under the faded image of the cross. A single look could confirm the reason for it’s continued presence here: it was too thick, too heavy, and rose out of the very floor itself. Cracks at the base alluded to attempts to move the monstrosity, none of which had come to fruition. So here it stood.

Bedelia ran her fingers over the cool stone, tracing an unknown pattern into the façade. Something about it appealed to her upon her entrance. Whether its almost terrifying dominance or age drew her she knew not, only that she ignored the rest of the crumbling structure and walked straight to it. “Here,” she called out, seemingly to no one, “here is where I will sit for you.” Bedelia turned herself back to the entrance, resting her hips against the altar, waiting for her companion to join her.

Hannibal emerged slowly from outside, thick sketch paper and materials held carefully in his grasp. No matter how much time they spent together, Bedelia would never be quite used to seeing him dressed in something other than an immaculate three-piece suit. That wasn’t to say she found the deep red leather jacket he had begun to favor any less appealing on him: it just seemed so…different. And here she felt the same, purple coat hanging down to above her knees, black pants almost alien on her hips. How she missed her tailored skirts. But to think that the two of them hadn’t changed otherwise in their time together would be a grave mistake on both their parts.

It had been three months since Baltimore. In that time, both of them had fumbled in the dark as to each other. Bedelia was no longer Hannibal’s psychiatrist: she couldn’t be, couldn’t ever hope to return to something that simple. And thus he – he was no longer her colleague. And they would never be friends. Perhaps that was what made marriage so easy between them. Two days ago Hannibal had proposed the idea. Yesterday, he had actually proposed. That very morning, they had been wed. To a casual outsider, it would have seemed the shortest engagement in all of history: the truth was, they had been engaged for years. Not in the typical sense of course, but something about this felt almost natural to the both of them. Like it was inevitable.

Almost as inevitable as their kiss that morning in a small, private chapel not unlike this one – except where that place had been warm and filled with urgency, here it was unyielding.

Hannibal stood in the middle of the aisle, the irony of their placement not lost on him. Bedelia looked beautiful there, surrounded by cool stone and decrepit architecture. As if this place was her domain. At once he found himself agreeing with her suggested setting. He smiled. “Yes. That will be perfect.”

Bedelia returned his smile with a gleam in her eyes. “Now, my husband,” she spoke with perverse pleasure at the words, and Hannibal felt his eyes darken with that same pleasure, “you haven’t brought me all the way out here on our wedding day simply to draw me.” She blinked before locking eyes with him, and at once the playful banter was gone, and the woman he married had returned. “Tell me the truth.” Bedelia was never one for playing games blindly: it was, Hannibal knew, the reason why he was so enchanted with her. The same reason she could be very dangerous to him.

A cautious step towards her brought Hannibal to stand beside a somehow unbroken pew. “I have indeed come to draw you. That, and I desire very much to send a response to the FBI – I think our marriage should be celebrated by our acquaintances.”

The word ‘response’ was not buried for Bedelia. As time into their escape had drawn on, a number of unsavory truths about her and her relationship with Hannibal had been revealed. What truths were real and which fake did not matter to those who read or uncovered. But nonetheless it mattered to her. Her entire life had been dredged up, exposed, and stripped raw. To cast it aside now was easy, but she had carefully confessed to Hannibal that it still infuriated her. Hannibal would tell no one that it was that moment he decided to marry Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier: the moment she had spoken to him with poison dripping from her words, her disgust at their rudeness making a flicker of darkness draw itself over her. She had impressed him once, indeed captivated him so that it had earned her a continued life. Now, her potential seduced him again all to easily.

“So it will be directly to Jack Crawford and Will Graham we are sending this message?”

Hannibal nodded. “I thought it fitting.”

Bedelia stood up at once, and began unbuttoning her jacket. “How should you like me to pose?”

“In any way that you desire.”

A mischievous smile found it’s way onto Bedelia’s lips, and she watched as Hannibal busied himself creating a place for him to sit. How she longed to send something to strike at the heart of the FBI, to let them know how displeased she was. But now, this opportunity had giftwrapped another one to her: the opportunity to truly intrigue Hannibal Lecter the same way he intrigued her. His reaction to her anger had not been hidden from her easily. The climax of her career had been founded on being able to pick him apart, and she had identified at once his enthrallment. And yet, somehow, he still seemed to want to protect her not because of her own mind's darkness, but almost as if he wanted to shelter her like a victim – harbor her, and coax her. She did not require coaxing. And she would not be wounded for him.

“There will be no way for them to trace us from this drawing, correct?” Bedelia asked as she continued with the buttons, shedding her coat but not stopping there. Hannibal’s back was still to her as he dragged a portion of a broken pew onto some neatened rubble.

“Of course not,” Hannibal answered, setting his materials aside to better balance his seating arrangement. “I will be cautious.” He brushed away some dust left by crumbling stone, and straightened himself. “There. Are you ready to begin?” He turned back to Bedelia, and nearly stuttered for breath.

Every item of clothing she had worn in was now at her feet in a pile, next to her discarded shoes. She stood nude before the altar, but no shame crawled her skin, no fear made her cower. Her legs were locked together, and the smooth flare of her waist drew Hannibal’s unguarded eye. Bedelia’s arms rested casually at her side, fingers playing slightly at her thighs to draw him elsewhere, to the neat, short curls between her legs. “I am,” she finally answered.

To say that Bedelia Du Maurier was anything but immensely beautiful would have been an outright horrific lie. Hannibal could not deny how pleasing she was to the eye, how her body was perfectly shaped and maintained. Her breasts rose and fell with every breath, framed by her elegant collarbones. She knew exactly what she wielded in herself, something he confirmed when his eyes finally trailed up her shadowed neck to her face.

Bedelia tilted her head ever so slightly, as if this was a therapy session and not something more intimate. She was pleased with Hannibal’s curious gaze, pleased to know that she had not read him wrong: that she could appeal to him in more ways than one. She always believed her body complimented her mind – and if Hannibal could fall for both, if she could show him that being exposed did not disarm her, he would be hers.

“Bedelia,” he managed, before words left him again.

“I’ve seen your drawings, Hannibal,” she said sweetly, “I will not have you guess at what I wear underneath the fabric. I want them to look at this and know that you saw me, will see me: that being exposed isn’t something I fear. It’s something that makes me angry when done by someone other than myself. I will not be their victim, and neither will I be yours.”

Hannibal tilted his head back to look up at her then, like she was a descending goddess – and perhaps she was. “I do not picture you as my victim.”

“No,” she acquiesced, “but you treat me like one. You’d have me be your Eve, innocent, led to temptation and darkness.”

His resulting smile was almost reverent. “You favor yourself as Lilith then?”

“I favor myself as myself. I am no mans figure or symbol. Do not draw me that way. Do not think of me that way.”

“And if,” Hannibal spoke as he sat before her, “I told you I thought of you as my equal?”

Bedelia pushed her shoulders back, and turned to pull herself atop the altar. Hannibal expected her to shiver, or for her skin to erupt with goose bumps, but she seemed thoroughly unaffected by the temperature.

On top of the altar Bedelia laid herself out, draping an arm over the cool stone as she settled on her left hip and elbow. The ring he had given her shone in the light. If she were another woman, Hannibal might have pictured her in that moment as a sacrifice: someone scared and almost virginally beautiful, about to meet death in a terribly picturesque and climatic manner. But Bedelia – to him, she looked now like a lioness, a woman who had already claimed her prey, perhaps devoured those who sought to sacrifice her. And now her predator’s gaze was upon him.

“Then you may begin.”

Hannibal set his thick sketch paper before him, and started. He began with the altar itself, creating the space of her kingdom: into the decrepit façade he created a new image, faces and bodies, something he fancied to be her throne. A moment of inspiration struck him, and the base at once held a giant set of stone antlers. Around the altar he only just roughed out the empty room around where she would lay. Something to suggest the location, not give it away. And then, his eyes turned to her.

It had been some time now, and still she had not moved. It was as if she had become the stone upon which she sat. His fingers were drawn to start with her chest, to create the shape of her ribcage that tapered down in a nearly sinful gorgeous line to her stomach. Bedelia brushed her hair over her shoulder as he began to work on her breasts, perfecting their round weight and the pink nipples that sat pert upon them, drawn tight in the air. At once, Hannibal found himself with an urge he could not suppress: to touch her, to feel the weight that he depicted for himself. It was an urge he had not entertained before, not even that morning when she became his wife. There had been no false notion of a honeymoon within his mind, and yet now a part of him wanted to act on her, all of her. It was the part of him beneath his veil – the ‘truth’ of him as she had called it, the one she seemed to love so.

Breasts swelled up into shoulders, into razor-sharp collarbones and smooth arms. How coyly her hand rested as it supported her, how knowingly the other brought the eyes to her legs.

Her legs – Bedelia always did love her legs. Every night she would sooth lotion into them, arching her feet as she covered every inch of them in a delicious honey-scented concoction. Her arms would receive the same treatment, but not with as much lavishness as her thighs, her knees, her calves. Hannibal recreated them exactly as they were, radiant as porcelain, carefully guarding her sex. Perhaps it was his attention to that area of her body, but he became acutely aware of her scent in that moment. The lotion, yes, the perfume he loved on her, but also something akin to sweat: her arousal, he realized with a devilish grin. Indeed Bedelia Du Maurier was a woman with needs.

By now it had been hours. Bedelia could feel her back stiffening, her hip bruising. But she willed herself to be as still as glass. She would not be weakened in her own nudity. It was with a pleasant hum she noticed Hannibal’s eyes lingering on her a touch more than she knew was necessary for him to create her image. Those maroon eyes were on her feet currently, tracing out her toes before he stopped, blinked, and brought his gaze to hers. Blue met red and there were sparks through Bedelia’s body, her entire nervous system alight with sensation. From the way he sampled the air with his acute sense of smell she knew he could detect her arousal, just as well as she could feel it. She might never know what part of him attracted her: she did not want to know, for fear of her own sanity.

Hannibal began drawing the deep shadows of her neck, gripping his sketchpad tightly as graphite shavings became her throat, and then her jaw. The lines of her face were impressively angular; surely he had noticed the sharp cut of her cheekbone that could almost rival his before. Her lips were small and parted, enough that he could highlight her cupid’s bow. Bedelia’s nose formed above the drawn mouth, along with the small beauty mark that seemed to bring every man and woman’s curious eye to her lips. _Kiss me_. Sinking his teeth into his cheek, Hannibal drew the first strand of her hair – then the next, and the next, until her full mane curled down around her arm and across her chest. Her ears came to hold the tiny gold hoops he had bought her once years ago. With baited breath Hannibal brought his pencil to her final detail: her eyes.

Where Bedelia seemed to favor lips, her eyes always carefully watching the words form on people’s mouths, Hannibal was seduced by eyes. How much they could say, when prompted. How much they could betray when lips spoke lies. Bedelia’s eyes had always been made of ice. They were nearly impregnable, lidded heavily with black lashes. It was the shape of her eye that took most of Hannibal’s focus – perhaps the hardest to see and then replicate. But once he had it, pouring the gleam into them was simple. Brows knitted over her eyes, and he was finished.

With a sigh, Hannibal signaled his closure by setting aside the sketchpad. Bedelia’s toes curled in anticipation of what would happen now: he sat before her, arms on his knees, waiting for her move.

“Stand,” she commanded, and the order echoed off the walls.

Hannibal did so, unfurling his body like a snake. When he stood at full height, Bedelia’s eyes skimmed purposefully down his body, over his chest and the erection she spied straining through his pants.

“Strip,” she said heavily, voice low with desire. At once Hannibal obliged her, paying no mind to his fine clothes as they fell to the floor. They were just fabric: painted fabric and boundaries, shields between his body and hers. Her eyes were on him just as his were on her, tracing the muscled shoulders and toned stomach, the balled fists and hard cock that twitched slightly in the air. Bedelia swallowed, crooking her finger in a motion of _come here_.

Their eyes remained locked as he approached her. When he ascended the final step and stood before her, as nude as she, he watched her pupils dilate. Bedelia’s delicate hand reached for his and found his wrist, pulling it towards her until his hand rested upon her cheek.

“Touch,” was her final instruction, and one Hannibal did not ignore. At once he cupped her cheek, thumb tracing the sharp lines of her face. Bedelia found herself relaxing into his touch, something she had not expected of herself. Something about him was beautiful in that moment, how he did not dive for her breasts or her sex, or try to pull her towards him. He was just touching, in a manner that echoed his fascination. Fingers tangled in her hair, brushing through blonde strands until they fell over her shoulder and down her back. She watched Hannibal cautiously as his large hand smoothed, warm, down her shoulder in a mimicry of the first intimate physical contact they had shared in Italy weeks ago. Now, unlike then, his fingers trailed up the curve of her waist until he held her breast in his palm. A thumb circled around her nipple before pressing firmly down, drawn over her stomach.

Bedelia’s breath halted as her muscles shivered under the pads of his fingers. But Hannibal merely brushed them through the curls at the apex of her thighs before he turned to her legs, grasping her skin. The smooth expanse of flesh slipped under his touch, down to her heel before making the return journey. It was on that return that Bedelia finally broke her pose, shifting to lie on her back and rest her elbows. The leg he touched bent at the knee, and he followed the shape of her body back upwards, back through curls and tight abdomen, soft globes of breast and finally to her sharp jaw. Once there, his thumb brushed her lips in a silent question: and she answered.

Hannibal’s body froze as Bedelia’s lips began to kiss his hand, and he could only watch as she turned her head to move that kiss to his palm. When he pulled away she lay there, waiting for him with flushed cheeks and her hair splayed around her like a halo. All at once Hannibal descended, kissing her, lips devouring her as if it was the last thing he might ever do. Her hand locked at the base of his neck, drawing him in to her as she responded to the frenzied lip-lock by introducing her tongue, parting lips to find his. As both their desperation grew so did the noises: Hannibal’s increased breathing and Bedelia’s soft pants.

Suddenly, Bedelia felt a finger at her clit, questing through her folds only to firmly press the bud again. She moaned aloud and closed her eyes, lips trembling open as Hannibal’s long digit swirled over her. His touch was more commanding and yet gentler than she could have ever imagined: it was as if he could predict every need of her body, every cant of her hips.

He did not kiss her as he toyed with her sex, bringing another finger to join the other in spreading her open as she parted her legs. Instead, he rested his forehead on hers, listening carefully, watching her like a hawk would watch every movement of its prey. Bedelia’s eyes were shut tight, afraid to watch him watching her, afraid of how easily he might be able to see how much she had wanted his touch. Her nose pressed against his cheek as he continued to explore her body, spreading her wetness over her.

Without pause, Hannibal buried one of his fingers within her warmth, kissing Bedelia’s brow as her muscles fluttered around him, accepting him. Curling his other fingers to create no other point of contact, he began to pump that finger inside of her, knowing it would not be enough and groaning as her hips thrust back. Bedelia’s neglected clit swelled itself in suggestion as she continued to take his finger between her folds rhythmically. She waited for him to push her, to slip another finger easily inside her, and perhaps a third, but no such motion came. Hannibal, it seemed, was content to watch her as she helplessly sought any form of release.

All too soon Hannibal removed his finger from her, freeing it from the arousal that clung to it. Only then did Bedelia open her eyes, to discern his intention. It did not take much deduction: his maroon eyes were completely glazed over as he offered his slick finger to her lips. And Bedelia accepted – first with her teeth, nipping at the first joint to express her displeasure with him, and then with her tongue. Hannibal watched as she enveloped his entire finger between her lips, humming as she savored the taste of herself on him. It was too much.

When Bedelia had licked his digit clean to her satisfaction, Hannibal stood and moved intently to the side of the altar. Hunching forwards, his hands locked around her hips and pulled her towards him, until she nearly slipped from her perch. But he caught her just at the edge, strong hands parting her thighs to reveal her dripping sex placed like a delicacy at the brink of a table. Hannibal kneeled on the cold floor, pressing his cock against the hard stone as his hands hooked around Bedelia’s thighs and at last he brought his tongue to taste her.

Hannibal had never favored needlessly picturesque language to describe the act of cunnilingus, but as he pressed his tongue flat between her folds and drew upwards, he could only think that she tasted like a fine, rare wine. Bedelia moaned loudly, deeply, arching her back as his lips sucked at her clit, drinking all of her that he could manage. He did not devour her like she expected. Instead, he was exact, clever tongue slipping through her arousal to circle inside her while his nose pressed into her sensitive bud. When he wasn’t drinking her, he was kissing her lips as sweetly as he might have kissed those on her face. Chaste kisses that tilted to match the angle of her sex, and then turned deeper, hungrier, until he was drinking her again. Bedelia felt thoroughly perfect under his mouth, like she was the goddess his lips now praised her to be. Her thighs were quivering around his head, and when she pushed herself up on her elbows to watch him at his task, she found his lustful gaze already upon her. The sight alone could have made Bedelia come mercilessly: Hannibal Lecter, knelt between her legs and feasting on her like he was dying of hunger, the lips of her sex swollen around his mouth, the way his tongue pushed and played with her nub. But Hannibal gave one better, lowering his gaze in an act of submission to her, bowing his head as he sucked at her clitoris.

His hands kept her hips firmly locked to the altar as her spine arched and she screamed out, eyes shutting once more as she came. White flashed behind her eyes and she gasped loudly, her muscles clenching furiously around nothing. He drew the orgasm out of her, relentless in his attention to her clit until she stopped thrusting into his lips.

When she finished, a slight sheen of sweat beginning to show on her chest, Hannibal dropped his tongue to her entrance again, keeping her on edge with purposeful slow licks to savor her arousal. How badly he _wanted_ her, his hips thrusting forward involuntarily at the thought, his cock only meeting the cruel texture of the altar. Bedelia pushed herself up on her arms, bringing one hand to tangle in his hair. She tightened her grip until it stung Hannibal’s scalp and then she _pulled_. Hannibal found himself torn from her cruelly, his lips coated in her wetness and wanting more. But Bedelia had other plans for him, plans that did not require words to ask of him what she would.

He stood at once before her, hips just at level with hers on the altar. She did not draw her legs close, or attempt to appear demure at all. Bedelia’s hand slipped down his chest, fingers barely brushing his cock. He stiffened at her inquisitive touch, feeling more needy than he usually would have allowed. Bedelia steadied herself with both hands, resting her weight back on them and pushing her hips deliberately towards him. Hannibal moaned low in his throat, steadying himself with his left hand on her bent knee, his right hand guiding his cock to where she awaited him.

Bedelia’s toes curled as Hannibal slowly pushed into her, his girth stretching her deliciously. A long groan parted her lips as she rolled her head and eyes back, whimpering when he was finally, _finally_ inside her fully. Her sex pulsed around him, and her eyes flew open and watched him as he grunted softly. Hannibal’s eyes were closed, one hand tight around her thigh and the other holding him up with his palm flat against the stone near her waist. He was lost in the feeling of her: how tight she was around him, how slick. His back curled forwards until his head rested on her chest.

Bedelia held him there with her right hand, satisfied with his pleasure and pleased with him herself. Her fingers came to pet his hair, stroking the strands until his chin tilted up and he looked at her with desperate eyes.

“Oh, Hannibal,” she whispered, his name tinted with lust. An arrow of arousal darted from her belly to where he was stilled inside of her, waiting for her to adjust to him. His patience was clearly waning, but Bedelia sought to draw it out as long as she could: how much sweeter it would be then when they both gave in. She bit her lip and nodded.

His thrusts were immediately rough, Bedelia digging her nails into his back as he drove himself inside of her again and again. Rough pants softly poured from his lips, and he tilted his hips upwards until she cried out. She relished how full Hannibal made her feel, how alive the pleasure was that coursed through her veins. He was unyielding and hard between her swollen lips, and she welcomed him with greedy thrusts of her hips. She was determined to take him as much as he took her.

Both of Bedelia’s hands came to anchor herself by the back of his neck, her back arching towards him, her hips away, until his cock slipped from within her. Wordlessly his worried gaze fixed her: had he done something wrong? But Bedelia reassured him with a gentle kiss to his chest, standing up from the altar until she was face to face with the man she would now call her lover. At her full height she only just came up to his chin, but her small stature did nothing to demean her command. Her hands came to grip his arms, steering him to switch their positions – Hannibal now leaned against the altar, and Bedelia leaned against him. His erection was slick and throbbing against her stomach, her eyes coming to admire his length as she pushed him down. Hannibal followed her motions, letting her guide him to lay on the altar, his legs dangling off the edges at the knees.

Bedelia smoothed her hands down the insides of his thigh, repeating the gesture with her nails when he gasped. How proudly he looked at her now, watching in delight as she climbed atop him. She stretched forwards like a cat, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder to brush his chest as she pulled herself up him, lightly grinding her pelvis against his cock trapped between their bodies. Bedelia’s hands splayed over Hannibal’s chest, curling against the light dusting of hair and the hard planes of muscle. She drew herself up to sit, hovering her hips over his as she took his cock tightly in her hand and guided him back into her.

Hannibal reverently watched as her sex enveloped him again, drawn to the way their bodies met: how utterly perfect and sinful they looked together. His hands found their way to her hips, encouraging her, steadying her. With her arms hanging loosely at her sides, Bedelia began to move above him.

She matched his earlier pace, her hair bouncing where it had fallen over her shoulder as she sank him into her over and over. A whimper told him she could come again, would like to come again, and he brought his thumb instinctively to her clit.

With a hiss, Bedelia batted his hand away, eyes fixing him with a cold glare. _Not unless I say so_ , they said, and Hannibal became acutely aware of his heart pounding inside his chest. That same anger that had drawn him to her again flickered over her features, and he moaned helplessly beneath her. She had no intentions of being brought to the edge with him: she would ride him until he was undone beneath her, stripped raw and vulnerable. That was what she wanted from him, and arousal instantly tightened his muscles to give her exactly what she asked.

Now was when Bedelia watched him, ice blue eyes steady as she rocked her hips up and down. She was waiting for him to fall, to surrender.

“Come for me,” she whispered, and Hannibal breathlessly keened at her words. “Come for me Hannibal.”

He groaned loudly, deep in his throat as he held tight to her hips, helping her increase the force of her thrusts.

“Come for me, my love,” she asked him sweetly, bringing her hands to stroke his arms.

Hannibal shattered with a roar, Bedelia sighing exaltedly over him as she felt him pulse inside her. He sank her hips over him fully, burying himself deep as he came, and Bedelia watched as his spine arched in a delicious fashion. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his mouth open and gasping as his hips canted upwards into her. When at last he was spent, he released his hands from her and lay splayed across the stone.

Bedelia smiled, tracing circles over his heart. “A fine sacrifice you make,”

Hannibal let a wordless laugh escape him, responding to her sentiment with gentle palms soothing her thighs. She did not move from above him, not even when she felt him become flaccid inside of her. Instead, the fingers of her right hand caught those of his left, tracing possessively over the wedding ring that matched hers, and guided his thumb back to her clit.

Hannibal did not protest. He knew she was close now, that it would only take a few swipes of his finger over her bud to make her come. Even though his cock could take no more stimulation, not now, not after such a release, he began to pinch her clit. Bedelia keened softly and tried not to move, delighted with his intent touch.

“And you, Bedelia,” he encouraged her gently, “Bedelia, my love.” His voice was tinged with something primal and desperate, his thumb coming to rapidly rub her clit from left to right.

With his words and the image of him coming beneath her still burned into her mind, Bedelia came with a whimper. At once she lifted herself off of him, riding out the waves of her second orgasm herself, feeling as her arousal mixed with his release began to slip from her. Still shivering, Bedelia pulled herself up his chest, coming to rest at his side. As she began to surface from her pleasure, Hannibal smoothed her hair from where it had stuck to her cheek.

No words were shared between them in the wake of their releases. The intensity of it all has driven them to exhaustion: the promise of repetition gave them cause to smile. As Bedelia relaxed, Hannibal kissed her once more, free of want and lust and full of nothing but pleasant awe. Her reciprocal kiss was much the same: and they were together now as equals.

~~~~~~~

The envelope was pulled open with delicate metal tools and double-gloved hands, as if it was a patient in for surgery and not just paper. When the contents fell onto the florescent-lighted table, a heavy silence filled the room.

Nobody breathed, or moved, not until Will Graham’s hands came to tilt the rough sketch paper so that he might see clearer.

Gazing back at him, at all of them, was the nude image of Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier. At once Will’s trained eyes flickered to the details of the drawing, to the gentleness of the composure, to the reverence of the fallen shadows across her skin. He knew Hannibal’s careful touch, and this showcased nothing but fascination and awe.

“What is this?” Someone asked, unable to see past coy lips and breasts and the nakedness of the subject.

“This,” Will said as he gritted his teeth, “is a message.” He stripped the gloves from his hands with a snap, and turned away. “We needn’t worry about the safety of Dr. Du Maurier. She is not his prisoner as we once thought. What we need to worry about now is our safety.”

“Our safety?” One of the technicians scoffed.

“Yes,” Will huffed in affirmation, “look at that drawing and tell me what you see.”

“A nude woman.” One voice suggested.

“An angry nude woman.” Another answered.

Will shook his head in disbelief. “Love. Or some form of it. And that will only make Hannibal Lecter more dangerous than he already is.”


End file.
